Hud, naglar, hår och små bitar av gummisulor försvinner in i mönstret som är konstruerat för att dölja våra spår

Hud, naglar, hår och små bitar av gummisulor försvinner in i mönstret för att dölja våra spår

(Skin, nails, hair and small pieces of rubber soles disappear into the pattern constructed to hide our traces.)

Linoleum, sealant, glue, mdf, carpentry paint, screenprint, photo wallpaper, maple frame, art glass, screenprint paper, concrete, LED sign 

2025

Galleri Mejan

Stockholm, Sweden

 

Every weekday between seven minutes to twelve and twenty-two minutes past one, a constant pinging and buzzing is heard through the corridors. The microwave ovens spin round and round as they heat up all of yesterday’s dinners. Over the course of a day, the total distance is several kilometers. After a year, it’s as far as three-quarters of a lap around the globe. Although the dishes vary, the smell is always the same, with an overhanging note of coffee and burnt plastic.

***

At quarter to two it is quiet again. At three o’clock we return for coffee. We nod to each other and say things like in a few months it will be light again or on Tuesday it will be above freezing. At seventeen minutes past three we go back to where we came from. At half past five it has already been dark for two hours and we have gone home to cook a new dinner to put in a small box.

***

In the corner of the foyer are tropical plants. At this time of year they are facing the window in an attempt to catch the few hours of sun.
As we enter and exit through the swinging doors, they whisper about our monumental inability to protect ourselves from being human.

***

One morning, the elevators start going horizontally instead of vertically. No one seems to notice. If you were to put your cheek close to the cold floor, a kind of sediment would appear. Skin, nails, hair and small pieces of rubber soles disappear into the pattern constructed to hide our traces.